


Unmoored

by Reaping



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anchors, BAMF Stiles, Bisexual Derek Hale, Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, Blowjobs, Brief mentions of panic attacks, Canon Compliant through season 4, Canon-Typical Violence, Frottage, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Tattooed Stiles Stilinski, alternating pov, brief mention of Allison Argent - Freeform, brief references to Kate Argent, brief references to the Nogitsune, canonical character death (off-screen pre-fic), implied Lydia Martin/Malia Tate, implied past Derek Hale/Braeden, implied past Stiles Stilinski/Malia Tate, implied scott mccall/kira yukimura - Freeform, magical tattoo acquisition, some canon divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 11:23:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7220374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reaping/pseuds/Reaping
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first one appears without fanfare – it takes a few weeks before anyone notices it, and he isn’t even the one who finds it. It's small, a few lines twisting away from his spine like branches, just above the dip of his hip on the right, ink blending seamlessly with his skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unmoored

**Author's Note:**

> For ScruffySterek, for the Teen Wolf Glompfest. I hope you like it. 
> 
> A huge thank you to my wonderful betas:
> 
> Mels - who helped me flesh out ideas (there were several before this one), kept me on task, encouraged me, and took time out of her busy schedule to give me a thorough beta (and thus helped things make more sense).
> 
> [Eeyore9990](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990) \- who gave me a second beta, helped me fix a lot of my tense issues, reminded me the difference between its and it's (I'm still probably going to mess it up in the future), and cleared away the last of the confusing bits.
> 
> Everything being in the correct tense and making sense is a direct result of the above ladies. Any remaining mistakes are entirely mine.

 

The first one appears without fanfare – it takes a few weeks before anyone notices it, and he isn’t even the one who finds it. It's small, a few lines twisting away from his spine like branches, just above the dip of his hip on the right, ink blending seamlessly with his skin.

 

Scott sees it a few months after they’ve pushed out the Nogitsune. Stiles is pulling on his lacrosse shorts when he feels the rough pads of Scott’s fingertips tracing over his skin, Stiles’ body tensing at the contact – they aren’t close lately, haven’t been since Allison died. Scott had told Stiles he didn’t blame him, that he knew it was the demon, but that doesn’t mean he can forget that it was wearing Stiles’ face at the time. The distance hurts, but Stiles understands.

 

He makes a questioning noise in his throat as he turns, Scott’s face twisting up in confusion as he grabs Stiles’ arm, pulling him towards the mirror at the end of the row and turning him around so it reflects his back.

 

“When did you get this?” There was no accusation in his voice, just curiosity as he tapped the mark. Stiles felt his own face scrunch up in response, the lines entirely new to him.

 

“I didn’t…or if I did, I don’t remember.” It made his throat tight, thinking back on the time he lost, bits and pieces that only come back in nightmare flashes. It was entirely possible this was something the Nogitsune did, for some reason that they’ll never know now. He still has the kanji for self burned into the skin behind his ear; it isn’t inconceivable that he was left with another reminder.

 

He shrugs it off, does his best to try and control the pounding of his heart. His arm is cold when Scott takes his hand back, the chasm between them opening up again. He thinks maybe that’s the first time Scott has voluntarily touched him since he’d helped to unwrap Stiles from the bandages.

 

Scott’s gaze is assessing, Stiles can almost hear him thinking, watches as Scott's lips part, a question clearly on the tip of his tongue. He knows what Scott wonders, was just wondering it himself. He waits for Scott to ask, sees it the moment that his friend decides the answer isn’t worth the question. They don’t talk about before, they barely talk at all, and asking Stiles if this could have been from _then_ is clearly something Scott isn’t ready to do. Scott’s mouth twists a little before he nods and retreats down the aisle, wandering out to the field.

 

Stiles walks back to his locker, shrugging on his jersey and heading out to practice, the markings slipping to the back of his thoughts.

 

**

 

He notices the appearance of the next one – finds it impossible to miss actually. One minute he’s surrounding a young version of Derek and himself with mountain ash, trying to hold back the berserker coming towards them, the next he’s collapsing on the ground, gasping for air. The circle snaps into place as traces of fire run across his skin, spreading out from the edges of the previous lines, new whorls of color twisting around his hip. When the pain eases enough for his breathing to slow, for his eyes to pry themselves open, a familiar face is staring back at him. Stubble and judgy eyebrows distracting him from the small ripples of light pulsing through the circle around them as the berserker tests for weaknesses in the line.

 

“Stiles?” He can see the inky black of Derek’s veins as the wolf pulls his pain. He heaves in a shuddering breath, body trembling as the pain that flooded his system is dragged away.

 

“De-Derek, you’re old again! I mean…you’re not young anymore, shit – I didn’t mean it like that, I mean, like, you’re older than…you know what, nevermind, you know what I mean. How?”

 

“I don’t know. I remember you pushing past me with the ash, you were muttering something I couldn’t catch, then the circle took and I was back and you were collapsing.”

 

Stiles nods along as he listens, easing his shirt up on the side to try and find the source of the pain, eyes widening as they catch on the ink seared into his skin. He can see it from the corner of his eye when Derek’s jaw tightens, his hand reaching out, fingertips nearly grazing the tattoo before pulling back. Their eyes meet and Derek looks like he’s about to speak, mouth parting slightly, when the barrier around them flares blue, drawing them back into reality.

 

The berserker is coming up against the circle, the sands shifting minutely with the force of each blow. Stiles winces as Derek roars, flinging himself towards the creature just as the circle breaks. It had been a long shot, expecting the circle to protect them, and he can only be grateful it held as long as it did. Really, he should be grateful to whatever brought Derek back, only he has a sinking suspicion he knows what that might be – he’d been willing the barrier into existence nearly as hard as he’d been wishing that Derek was himself again, someone older, wiser, with more fighting experience. (Although, a lot of that was _losing_ experience, so maybe that was less of a factor than his desire to not watch the berserker tear through a child – not that he was much older than younger Derek, but it definitely felt that way.)

 

Stiles is jolted from his thoughts again when Derek slams into him, body sliding along the asphalt after the berserker throws him. He watches as Derek shakes himself, muscles bunching as he flips back onto his feet, claws flicked out, fangs dropped, crystal-blue eyes glowing as he roars. Derek moves to launch himself back into the fray, only to straighten when Scott comes barreling in from the side, all snarls and teeth as he latches his arms around the monster’s neck. An uncomfortable squelching sound comes before Stiles finally turns his face away, sure he doesn’t want to see what’s happening – he has more than enough nightmares already.

 

Scott’s feet appear in his line of sight a few minutes later, his footsteps loud in the sudden silence. He chances a glance up, surprised at the lack of blood coating the alpha. He can see clearly when Scott’s nose twitches, his eyebrows scrunching as he crouches down, gaze heavy on the ink creeping from beneath Stiles’ shirt where it’s still rucked up above his hip. It’s easy to catch the way Scott’s eyes flick to Derek, the nod they share.

 

“What? Guys, seriously, what?” He gets no answer from either wolf, just a wry twist of the lips from Scott before his fingers brush against Stiles’ arm, a faint grey pulling out from his skin, taking the last of the pain from the mysterious new ink with it.

 

 

**

 

 

He almost stays when Derek is dying outside of La Iglesia. He wants to stay, thinks maybe there’s something. But Derek’s staring at him, telling him to go, begging him to help save Scott. Something in him breaks when he turns away and runs into the old church. He finds Scott but it doesn’t matter – he’s not the one who saves his friend, not the one Scott needed. Derek had needed him, he’d needed him and Stiles had walked away.

 

He barely manages to stumble out of the crumbling building, tears steadily draining down his face. It’s a mess outside, Chris, Braeden, and Parrish trying to take down Kate – most of the Calaveras down already.

 

Stiles moves forward, not sure what he thinks he can do that trained hunters can’t, but he’s shoved back, tripping over his own feet, hands slamming into the ground as he hits the dirt. His heart is pounding in his chest, adrenaline urging him to get up and fight the new threat before his brain catches up to what he’s seeing.

 

There’s a wolf in front of him, black fur shifting in the slight breeze.  He barely has time to wonder before its head is turning towards him, eyes glowing an unearthly blue. He blinks and it’s gone, body flying through the air, jaws clamping down on the throat of the berserker who’d been protecting Kate. He catches a flash of blonde as she flees into the tunnels, sees Chris go after her, hopes he’ll have the courage to do what needs to be done (but doesn’t really believe it will happen – family ties can be hard to sever completely).

 

Everything is over before Stiles can drag himself back to his feet, muscles twinging, exhaustion seeping in now that the adrenaline is finally fading. He slumps in relief when Scott emerges from the church, Peter being dragged behind him by the others, bound (and really, Stiles tried to warn everyone that Uncle Bad Touch was up to something – he’d give them an ‘I told you so’ if he had the energy).

 

It happens so fast – the explanations and answers, everyone splitting off into the assorted cars. It happens and then Derek is gone, and he doesn’t come back. Stiles is happy he’s alive, but he’d barely had time to acknowledge that before Derek was gone. Braeden too. Peter is locked away in Eichen, Chris disappears to wherever he goes when he’s away from Beacon Hills, the pack goes back home.

 

Life goes on, so does Stiles’ guilt – because he didn’t know that Derek was evolving. Stiles thought the other man was dying, that his friend was dying, and he did nothing. He thinks, later, that maybe it ate away at him slowly.

 

**

 

Stiles spends more time with Deaton than he ever imagined he would, devouring all of the emissary’s texts, learning the theoretical side of his magic. The extra time with Deaton means more time with Scott too. It’s been better, so much better than he ever expected really – it may have taken a little time, but they’re starting to get back to who they used to be, more or less. There are tense moments sometimes, but it takes less and less time for them to talk about it, move past it.

 

Oddly, things have seemed to calm in the supernatural world lately too, so practical experience for Stiles’ burgeoning power is sparse – more practice willing a circle into place with a handful of thrown mountain ash than anything else. Senior year is nearly over by the time something really starts trying to kill them off again. They’re not exactly sure what it is – but something has been snacking on unsuspecting hikers in the preserve. With this town’s history, Stiles can’t really figure out why the hikers went so far off the beaten trails – nothing good ever happens when you wander alone out there in the woods. Doesn’t stop him from investigating the crime scene though. In his defense, mountain ash has worked against nearly every supernatural creature they've come across, and if that doesn’t work he has his dad’s spare Glock. Also in his defense, the incident gives them their first clue.

 

Stiles is lucky to make it out with nothing but a few scratches. Scott is understandably pissed when Stiles shows up at his house in the middle of the night though. “What the hell happened, Stiles?” Scott’s voice is sharp and biting, but Stiles can hear the fear underneath, the worry that he’d almost lost his brother. The rest of the pack trails in by the time Stiles starts to answer.

 

“I just thought –” He can’t even finish the sentence before he’s cut off.

 

“I _know_ what you thought, but why the hell would you go off the trails? You _know_ that’s what happened to the hikers.” The words are laced with fear and that guilt-inducing accusatory tone that Scott had gotten so good at since he’d become their alpha.

 

“I heard…” His throat works as he swallows hard, choosing his words more carefully. “There was a voice, calling out for help – I thought that maybe someone else was out there, hurt. That the…whatever this thing is had him down. But there wasn’t anyone there when I got to the clearing – it was just this…thing. I didn’t see it very well, it looked like a wolf, or a dog, or something, but also not. And its teeth.” His body shakes at the memory, a fine tremor running down his spine before he can continue. “I think – I think it made his voice. And I threw the ash but it just, it went right past it, like it didn’t matter. And the bullets didn’t slow it down. I mean Jesus, Scott, .40 cal and it shrugged them off. Steel and wolfsbane don’t work, mountain ash doesn’t work. Nothing works.” He’s shaking by the time he finishes; the reality of how close he’d come to not making it crashes down on him.

 

“Stiles – you said he…whose voice was it? Who did you think was out there?”

 

“What?” His mouth is dropped open, eyes blinking rapidly, because he didn’t mean to say that, meant to say _the_ voice, not _his_ voice. He can feel Scott staring, eyes searching, his overpowered senses picking up on things Stiles doesn’t want him to get.

 

“Who, Stiles?”

 

“Nobody.” He swallows hard, can feel the skip in his heart that Scott must be hearing, watches the slight tightening around his friend’s eyes as he marks the lie. His own chin tilts down and away, body language begging Scott to let it go. He’s surprised when it works.

 

“Okay. Okay. So, no mountain ash, no steel, no wolfsbane, and a voice that calls out for help. It’s something at least. We can see if there’s anything in the Argent’s bestiary, you can ask Deaton if there’s anything in his books that you haven’t already seen. In the meantime, nobody goes anywhere alone, not if it’s mimicking voices.”

 

Stiles nods his assent, so does the rest of the pack. They all spread out in Stiles’ living room, Kira dropping down next to him and nudging his shoulder.

 

“How did you get away, anyhow?” It’s said with a smile, no condescension, just genuine curiosity.  The corner of his mouth tilts up as he answers her.  

 

“I did what I learned to do best – I ran.” She snickers and he laughs with her, the last of the terror draining away finally.

 

**

 

His head jolts up at the slam of a door, eyes blinking rapidly to clear away the fuzziness left over from sleep, hand coming up to wipe surreptitiously at a spot of drool clinging to his lips. A yawn cracks his jaw before he rolls his head around on his shoulders a few times, quiet groans spilling from his lips at the stretch against the newly formed knots in his muscles.

 

Stiles knows better than to sit up at a table when trying to research – has plenty of experience waking with all sorts of new aches and pains. He never seems able to drag himself off to bed when his eyes started to droop, always so sure he can go a few more minutes. It’s a problem and he really should stop pretending like he doesn’t know exactly what will happen.

 

Long arms reach out, muscles tensing as he stretches, spine popping as he works out the kinks before standing and heading back to the living room to see if anyone's had better luck than him. The sight that greets him has his foot freezing mid-step when he rounds the corner, mouth falling open, body slumping into the doorframe.

 

It takes a few minutes for the shock to fade enough that he can tune into the conversation happening in the living room, but he's grateful nobody seems to be paying him any attention when he's finally able to get his body moving again. He does his best to move casually, like he isn’t stunned at the people sitting before him, body dropping gracelessly onto the couch next to Scott. The very unexpected guests barely flick their eyes in his direction, though Scott shifts over to give him more space. He’d thought Derek and Cora were still in South America – had no idea they were back stateside, let alone in Beacon Hills. Stiles’ mouth starts to open to ask but Scott continues on, as if they hadn’t been briefly interrupted.

 

“So you know what it is then?” Nobody could miss the tone of hopefulness in Scott’s voice. If they know what it is, maybe they can stop it.

 

“No, we’ve been tracking it for two months, but we haven’t gotten close enough to even _see_ it.” Derek’s jaw tenses, a slight tick at the edge of those inescapable eyes, all perfectly mirrored in Scott’s expressions as the alpha slumps back into the cushions, blowing a frustrated breath out through his nose.

 

Stiles clears his throat, garnering the attention of the wolves, the words momentarily sticking before he manages to get them out. “We’ll figure it out.” Stiles can feel the slight bobbing of his head as he speaks, the tiny nods to reassure them, reassure himself. “You can help patrol, and we’ll figure it out. We’ll stop it, whatever it is.” The silence stretches when he finishes, the tension winding up in the room the longer anyone goes without speaking. He’s about to break, words and questions on the edge of his tongue, when there’s a yell from back in the kitchen.

 

“I have something!” It’s Lydia, urgency in her tone as she moves towards the living room, the rest of the pack following behind. “One day we’re going to translate all of these texts; I can’t be the only person here who has to slog through ancient Latin.” The glare she sends Stiles’ way is pointed, but there’s no heat in her words – she knows they appreciate what she can do, and she knows he’s trying to learn so he can help with the older volumes they have. “You kept describing it as like a dog, so I think we were getting stuck – because it is like a dog, but it’s also not. You said nothing you tried worked, right?”

 

“Nothing. That thing just kept coming.” There’s a noise of surprise from the left, where their new guests are sitting.

 

“You fought with it? _You_?” Ah, that old familiar flare of irritation at being underestimated by Derek (nevermind that it's always justified, because really, he doesn’t do anything but fail and run).

 

“Yes, _me_.” He twists where he's sitting until he's halfway facing the pair of wolves. “It’s been a long time since you left – things have changed.” He has to fight back a smirk when the eyebrows in front of him raise incredulously, disbelief evident on the perfectly stubbled face. “Fine, they haven’t changed that much. I still ended up running, but mostly because that thing is some demon spawn from hell that isn’t bothered by mountain ash or steel bullets.”

 

“As I was saying,” and _there’s_ the heat Lydia was missing earlier, annoyance at the interruption clear in her voice, “nothing worked, including steel. And when I stopped focusing on the dog aspect and started looking for mentions of that, I came across something. It’s not very detailed, but I think this is it.” She flips the book towards Stiles, fingernail tapping on an illustration, smug smile tilting up the edges of her lips when he gasps. That’s definitely the thing that he fought, he nodded up at her, to confirm. “Okay so, it’s a ‘Crocotta’ – some sort of wolf-dog-lion beast. There are only a few accounts of them from India and Ethiopia, not a lot of information. The hunter who wrote this mentioned that they can mimic the voices of loved ones, separating their victims from other people and drawing them into the jungle. It says that they’re not affected by steel weapons, and dogs are their enemy. Eventually people stopped believing in them, assuming that the old accounts were really just hyena sightings.”

 

“Okay so, how do we kill the ricotta?” Stiles smirks to himself, amused at his own joke (lame as it may be).

 

“ _Crocotta_ – honestly Stiles, I know you know better – and it doesn’t say. The accounts in here say that the hunter lost track of it before figuring out how.”

 

“Awesome. Really helpful.” He can’t help his own frustrated sigh, head tipping back as he thinks.

 

He can hear the shuffle as everyone heads back to the kitchen, the slight dip in the seat as Scott gets up, hand patting Stiles’ knee as he goes. His eyes slip closed as his body tilts forward, elbows resting on his knees, head in his hands, fingertips rubbing at his temple. He isn’t sure how long he slept earlier, but if the headache building behind his eyelids is any indication, it wasn’t nearly long enough. He’s startled when the cushions next to him dip again, a warm weight resting gently against his side. Stiles’ head turns, eyes blinking open.

 

“Hey.” That’s it. The second thing the other man has said to him since he arrived, and it’s ‘hey’. Like this is just any other Tuesday – except they haven’t seen each other in nearly a year. Like they don’t have anything more to say to each other. They do, of course, there’s so much that they left unsaid. So many things Stiles wants to say, has an almost pathological need to say, things like ‘sorry’ for walking away even though it turned out alright, things like ‘I had a revelation that night.’ Things he shoves back down because he can’t say them. Not to this man who walked away and didn’t look back until he had to.

 

“Hey.” It’s all he can really say anyway, because the man in front of him doesn’t owe him anything at all. There was never – there just wasn’t anything to hold him here, and being mad that he left is pointless, because there had never been a reason for him to stay. “How, uh, how was South America?” He tries to add a smile, to remember how to act like he doesn’t care. He was really good at it before (maybe because he’d gotten so good at lying that he could lie to himself too), but it’s been a long time since he had to bother.

 

He feels off-kilter now. Adrift. Unsure why they followed that thing all the way back here, when they didn’t have any knowledge about it that would help the pack – they could’ve just called, Scott would’ve thanked them for knowing where it came from at least. He almost asks that too; why they bothered. But he stops, doesn’t want to hear that they came to help because the pack was broken when they left, and they couldn’t be sure there was even a pack here to stop the thing. Doesn’t want to hear that they’ll be leaving as soon as it’s done, either. He’s selfish, and so he’ll take what he can get.

 

“It was good – calm. At least until we ran across this thing. How’s everything been here? Scott didn’t really say.”

 

“Good. Calm. I’ve been working with Deaton on my spark. It was all pretty much theoretical until recently – but I’ve gotten really good at ash circles.” The smile this time is genuine, and he uses it as a buffer to move himself away slightly, body turning as he shifts until his back is pressed into the armrest, a foot of space between them now on the couch. “The pack’s been doing well.  Everyone is graduating, even Malia.”

 

There’s a sudden tenseness in Derek’s body as he murmurs out a ‘good’, a short tilt of his head that Stiles thinks was supposed to be a nod. Silence drags between them, an air of awkwardness permeating the space between them as neither speaks, both of them seeming to have run out of things to say. It becomes too much, and Stiles springs up from the couch, arms flailing a little as he nearly overbalances.

 

“Well, I need to check in with my dad, didn’t make it home last night and all.” He can see the bob of Derek’s head as he acknowledges what’s being said. “Scotty! I’m out, I’ll be back in a few!”

 

There’s an echoed ‘okay’ from the direction of the kitchen, and he nods to himself. He faces Derek again, hand twitching when he stops himself from reaching out to do…something.

 

“Right. So, I’ll see you later?” It’s a question but not, and he doesn’t wait for a response before continuing. “It’s really good to see you Derek.” He spins away, throat squeezing against the rest of the words that want to spill out, exhaustion encouraging everything he’d tamped down to rise to the surface.

 

He’s almost out the door when he hears the soft ‘you too’ that Derek mumbles.

 

**

 

There's nothing else in any of the books they have, instead there is another death. It's enough to push them to action. Steel can’t hurt it, but they have four werewolves, a Kitsune, a werecoyote, a banshee, and one human with a mostly untrained spark. Hopefully, that is all they’ll need. The pack (with the addition of Derek and Cora), spread out in the preserve, starting on the trail that Stiles had been on when he was attacked. They spend an hour moving through the woods, searching fruitlessly.

 

“This isn’t working.” The round of glares Stiles gets in response all seem to say ‘duh’. “I mean, this isn’t going _to_ work. It doesn’t go after groups – it goes after people on their own. We need to split up.” He's prepared for the round of arguments that follow, the liberal use of the word idiot, and leans back against a tree to wait, arms crossed over his chest, teeth digging into his bottom lip as he rolls it back and forth. He waits until they're winding down before he balances his weight back on his feet, moving to stand in the rough circle again. “I’m not telling anyone to leave, but we need to spread out some. And by _we_ I mean _me_. The rest of you need to hang back. It’s not going to come after you. The legends say that it’s the mortal enemy of dogs –”

 

“Stiles –” There’s a warning growl in Derek’s voice, his eyes flashing blue.

 

“I’m not saying you’re dogs; calm down, grumpywolf. I’m just saying, foxes, coyotes, wolves, all in the same family okay? So the chances of it going after one of you are slim. I think all of you are close enough to dogs for this thing to not want to be anywhere near you.”

 

“I’m not. I could be bait.” There’s defiance in Lydia’s voice, something in her tone begging him to try and find a way to explain why she’d make terrible bait. Lucky for him, he’d had time to think while they argued.

 

“No, but you’re smarter than me.” He doesn’t miss the faint flush of pride on her face, despite the dimness of the forest. He’s not really lying either. She is smarter than him – if this doesn’t work she can do the research better than he can, since she can read most of the old books. He says as much before moving on. “It came after me once; it will probably do it again. At least this time I have backup who can hear me.” He can see the others trying to find some way to talk him out of this, but he’s right – this is the best idea. He starts walking before anyone else can speak, narrowing his eyes when Scott moves in front of him.

 

“Just – be careful Stiles. We’ll be listening.”

 

He purses his mouth and agrees with a bob of his head, drawing Scott into a quick hug before moving past him, angling away from the trail and deeper into the woods.

 

**

 

Stiles spends what feels like forever (but is probably only twenty minutes) stumbling around through the undergrowth, clothes catching and snagging on branches, before he hears anything else. There’s the barest whisper of sound ahead and to the left, like something is creeping slowly through the bushes that have cropped up between the trees out here. He steels himself and keeps moving forward, more cautiously now, working to keep his breathing even.

 

The voice that calls out from straight off to his right startles him enough that he yelps and jumps, losing his balance when he comes down, cracking his elbow on a rock. Stiles hisses in pain as he levers himself back up, heart thundering in his chest as he continues on, this time in the direction of the voice, eyes darting between the trees, trying not to be caught off guard again. He’s gone maybe fifteen more feet when something comes barreling towards him, branches snapping off in its wake as it charges.

 

He’s barely opened his mouth to yell when another figure darts from behind him, blocking his view and redirecting the monster’s attention. It gives a strange yipping roar – and now he gets why people might have confused this for the hyena back in the day, the noise so similar to their strange calling cackles.

 

The figure in front of him comes into clarity, and Cora whimpers as the thing tackles her, its claws swiping at her stomach before it twists back to face him. Stiles’ foot slips backwards, the first step to turning and running, when the rest of the pack breaks from the trees, surrounding the crocotta, fangs and teeth gleaming in the low light as they take turns attacking, doing their best to keep it off-balance. There’s another whimper and Stiles drops to his knees beside Cora. The ground feels strangely moist beneath him, and it takes a minute before he realizes that it’s already become saturated with her blood.

“Cora?” There’s a frantic edge to his tone, his hands fluttering at the torn openings in her shirt, brain trying hard not to focus on the flashes of pink and white and red beneath the scraps of clothing. Her eyes catch his, a dim glowing gold, fading even as he watches, her breathing slowing.

 

A leg bumps against his back and he turns, seeing Kira standing guard, katana drawn while she watches the others fight. The beast seems slower, its movements more languid, dark red lines sluggishly oozing blood all over its hide. He doesn’t think, just pulls on Kira’s arm until she’s spun around, frees a hand from her sword and grips it tightly before using his other hand to push down on Cora’s stomach, ignoring the pained whine it causes.

 

His eyes close and he focuses harder than he thinks he ever has before, tries to believe with all of his being that he can pull the electricity from Kira, can spark Cora’s healing, can save her. Believes she’s going to live. There’s a small tingle, the first hints of the energy Kira can harness pulling through him.  He has a moment to truly believe it all, to realize it’s working, before it all goes to shit. His body lights up from the inside out, skin glowing as he screams, the electricity surging between the girls, his body the conduit. Mercifully, he blacks out.

 

**

 

The quiet hum of voices breaks off as he stirs, eyes fluttering as he tries to open them, breath stuttering out to a groan when he tries to roll over and has to stop, his body one giant throbbing ache. He slumps back down onto the surface beneath him, far softer than he expects the forest floor to be. It takes more effort than he thinks it should, but he finally manages to crack his eyes fully open, takes in the soft light falling through familiar windows, the dark (and soft, so soft) blanket spread beneath him, and realizes he’s in the loft, body stretched out on Derek’s bed.

 

“Whatimzit?” The words come out in a slur, barely intelligible to him, probably entirely incoherent sounding to anyone else in earshot. Soft footsteps echo in the large room as someone moves closer, tanned skin creeping into his line of sight as whoever it is stops in front of him before they kneel down, a familiar crooked jaw smiling at him.

 

“Hey buddy, glad you’re back with us.” Scott’s eyes are tight with worry, but he’s smiling at Stiles and he’s whole, so Stiles takes that as a sign that things are probably mostly okay.

 

“Feel like I was hit by a truck. And then electrocuted.” At least his words are clear this time, the fuzziness he’d come to with dissipating some.

 

He can hear the rest of the pack chuckle at that, and he smiles, though it hurts a little. He manages to wiggle one hand forward, making grabby ‘help me’ motions until Scott sighs and reaches out to help him sit up. Stiles can’t help the whine he lets out at the movement, but grips Scott’s forearm tighter when the other man tries to pull away. He slumps forward slightly when he’s finally up, muscles twinging, breathing heavily through his nose as a wave of dizziness washes over him before passing. He can see the rest of the pack in what passes for the living room, spread out across the few pieces of furniture Derek had added before he left. “I feel like I’ve been asleep for years. How long was I out?” Scott glances back at the others, getting a nod from Derek before he answers – and Stiles would wonder about that if his brain was firing on all cylinders yet.

 

“Three days.”

 

“What!?!” He knows he yelled, winces as the sound bounces through his skull, but he couldn’t help it. “Sorry, but…just…three days?”

 

Scott huffs out a breath, moving to sit on the edge of the trunk at the end of the bed. “Yeah, three days. I covered with your dad, didn’t want to worry him. Deaton said you’d wake up in your own time, but if it went on much longer I’d have brought him here.” Stiles opens his mouth to ask more, but Scott holds up a hand, stalling him. “There’s more. Derek, can you bring the mirror?”

 

Stiles watches the older man head up the spiral staircase, returning a minute later with a full-length mirror that Stiles never knew was up there. Derek sets it near the bed then moves to help Stiles to stand, his large hands warm where they catch against Stiles’ hips, his hold gentle but firm. When Stiles is turned enough that his back is to the mirror, Derek starts to gingerly pull at Stiles’ shirt, inching it up his skin, before Stiles slaps at his hands.

 

“What the hell are you doing?” He tries to make it sound angry, he does, but he’s not sure how convincing he can be right now. As long as it covers up anything else, it will have to do. Derek’s eyes roll before he steps back, shooting a glance at Scott, eyebrows raised. They stand there for a few minutes, the three of them all staring at each other before there’s a muttered ‘boys’ from the room beyond, followed by the clacking of heels on concrete. Red hair fills his vision as Lydia marches between them all, dragging out a smaller mirror and angling it so Stiles can see the his back, reflected in the larger mirror behind him.

 

“Lift your shirt.” It’s not a request, and as much as he feels weird halfway stripping in front of everyone (because there’s no mistaking the way that the entire pack is focused on him right now), he does what she says, the cotton sliding up and revealing much more than the few lines he had known were there. There’s no stopping the gasp that falls out of his mouth as the shirt finally pulls away entirely, obscuring his vision for a bare second before dropping down to his wrists and slipping to the floor, forgotten as he takes in the intricate tattoo now covering his entire back. It’s a tree, trunk spiking up over his spine, bare branches twisting away from the center, tiny specks scattered throughout, seeming to glow.

 

“What the fuck?” The words are a bare whisper, pushed out of him as his legs collapse out from under him, Derek’s hands darting forward the only thing that stops him from crashing roughly to the floor. He sways in the other man’s grip for a moment, brain struggling to come to grips with what he’s seeing. Where before there’d been a few lines on either side of his spine, now it's like a year’s worth of sessions – the tree shifting and rippling as he draws in breaths, the ink seeming alive under his skin.

 

“I’ll get Deaton.” Scott’s voice helps to clear more of the fog, and Stiles manages to glance over, see his friend’s face pinched with worry. Derek eases Stiles back onto the bed, helping to prop him up against the headboard before heading towards the kitchen.

“Okay.”

 

It's nearly a croak, but Scott hears him and heads out, Liam and Kira close behind him. Lydia tries to smile at him, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, as she sets the compact on the table near the sofa, her fingers brushing against Malia’s when the other girl stands to leave too. His hand lifts in a small wave as they wander out the door. It’s another minute before Cora pulls herself up off of the chair she’d claimed and comes to sit on the bed at Stiles’ feet. He’s a little surprised – they never really had a chance to get to know one another, but in all of their small interactions before the Hales had left, he didn’t get the impression that she’d liked him all that much.

 

“I just wanted to say thank you, for healing me.” Her smile is tentative, eyes slightly damp.

 

He smiles back, though it feels small on his face, his brain still trying to make sense of the ink on his back. “Sure. Anytime. Speaking of…what happened after I passed out? Did they manage to kill the crocotta?”

 

“Oh! God, nobody told you. Yeah, it’s dead. Derek ripped its head off when you collapsed. I’m pretty sure Malia helped dismember it before they burnt the parts.”

 

“Thorough.” He tries to hide his flinch, but he’s pretty sure Cora catches it, if the smirk and slight chuckle he hears are any indication. Stiles kicks softly at her thigh, and it becomes a full laugh as she stands and moves away.

 

“Hey Der – I’m gonna run out and grab some food. I’ll be back in a little bit.” Cora’s lips twitch at whatever mumbled response she gets from Derek and then she’s gone, the loft door rattling closed behind her.

 

Stiles lasts almost an entire minute before his foot is rapidly jiggling and he’s chewing on the edge of his thumb, the silence making him antsy. He’s nearly decided to get off the bed and pace (which is a terrible plan, his legs still feel like they’re made of jello), when Derek returns. His hands get dropped back into his lap, foot stilling, while the other man approaches. He passes over a glass of water and a small, individually wrapped pair of aspirin. Stiles wonders briefly if this is from the first aid kit he left here nearly a year ago, then decides it doesn’t really matter and opens it up, swallowing the pills quickly. He hears Derek clear his throat, shifts his legs out of the way as much as he can when the man moves to sit. He’s trying to resettle himself in a more comfortable position when he feels hands on his calves, shifting his legs until they’re stretched across Derek’s lap. Stiles’ mouth opens, another series of questions primed to go to dispel the awkward feeling settling in his stomach, but Derek speaks first.

 

“That’s twice now.”

 

“Huh?” It’s not eloquent, but it definitely conveys his confusion, or maybe that’s the deer-in-headlights look on his face, because Derek clears his throat and tries again.

 

“You saved Cora’s life. Again. For the second time.”

 

“Oh. Yeah, I…yeah. She’s pack, and your family. I had to do something.”

 

“You didn’t…you didn’t _have_ to. But you did. Thank you. I never thanked you before, but I should have. I owe you a thank you; I owe you everything.”

 

“You’re welcome.” It feels so strange, such an awkward thing to say to someone. He just did what he thought was right, the same thing any of them would’ve done if they could have. He tries to think of a way to explain that, but he’s having trouble focusing – distracted by the feel of Derek’s thumb rubbing slow circles against his ankle. By the warm body beneath his legs. There’s a catch in his breath each time the other man’s thumb brushes across the thin skin over the bone; he loses time in the rhythm of it.

 

He feels like he’s moving through molasses when he raises his head, eyes raking up Derek’s chest to catch on his gaze. The moment feels charged, their eyes locked, breaths even and matched, and then Derek is surging forward, body sliding easily from beneath Stiles to blanket him instead, his mouth parted, warm breath ghosting across Stiles’ lips before they’re sealed together. Stiles’ fingers twine themselves in Derek’s hair, grip tight, pulling the other man tighter against him, tongue snaking out to part Derek’s lips.

 

The kiss is heated, all lips and tongues, their bodies following the pull of gravity until they’re lying flat on the bed, Derek’s weight settled across Stiles, pinning him in place. And Stiles is lost in it, in the feel of this man he’s wanted for so long finally up against him. There’s a whimper, he’s pretty sure it’s coming from him, and then strong hands are sliding beneath him, one gripping his hip, fingertips brushing against his jeans-covered ass, the other sliding down from the nape of his neck, trailing fire in their wake as they move down his spine, brushing against the top of the branches Stiles now knows are there. A spark jolts through him at the contact and he arches up, pushing Derek off of him.

 

“Wait! Wait…,” because that flare of pleasure-pain reminded him of Derek’s words. That he _owed_ Stiles. And that…Stiles doesn’t want this like that. Derek is standing by the foot of the bed by the time Stiles calms himself enough to look up, his expression worried and guilty, and Stiles’ heart breaks a little bit for him, and a lot for himself. “You don’t…you don’t owe me _this_ Derek. Never this.” His chest gives out a particularly strong throb at that, the pain a quick burst (and whoever told him heartbreak wasn’t literal was full of shit, because this definitely felt real to him).

 

“What?” To his credit, Derek sounds genuinely confused, but it still takes Stiles a moment to unstick his throat and get more words out.

 

“I’d never…ask you to do this…with me…because you feel like you owe me something. I just – I did what anyone would’ve done. So I think, maybe, I think I should go. Or wait outside. Or something.” He moves to get off the bed, his feet easing down against the cold concrete when Derek is suddenly crouched before him, fingertips gentle but insistent where they grasp his chin, tilting his head up until Stiles is looking into Derek’s crystalline eyes.

 

“This has nothing to do with that. Stiles – I wouldn’t do that to you. Or to me. I’ve wanted to do this for a long time. Since before you ever saved Cora the first time. Do you believe me?”  And god, does he want to.

 

“But you never…” his voice trails off, the words not nearly as easy to get out as he thought they’d be.

 

“You were sixteen. And then you were possessed. And then _I_ was sixteen. And then Scott was taken. And then I…”

 

“Left…you left.” Stiles can feel the hot well of tears building up, sees misery etching itself into Derek’s expression as the first one slips free and rolls down his cheek.

 

Derek’s palm cups his face, thumb smoothing along the skin beneath his eye, catching the tear as it falls.“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left, not like I did – but you still weren’t old enough. You’re barely old enough now to not feel like I’m doing something wrong, like I’m becoming _her_.”

 

“Don’t. Don’t compare yourself; you could never be anything like that – you didn’t want to hurt me, right?”

 

“Never.”

 

“Then you’re nothing like her.”

 

They’ve been moving closer as they speak, Derek inching forward as Stiles leans down, and their lips finally brush again, the kiss softer this time. It’s easy and slow, the urgency gone for the moment, their foreheads tipping together as it breaks, breaths mingling. Stiles’ hands come up to cradle Derek’s face, thumbs brushing gently along his cheekbones, Derek’s own arms wrapping back around Stiles, one hand on his nape, the other low on his back, just beneath the tree. They lose time, just breathing one another in, enjoying the new intimacy. Soft caresses give way to kisses again, gentle presses that slowly heat, a low banked fire warming them from the inside out.

 

**

 

Long minutes pass and then Derek is pressing himself up and over, body bracketing Stiles, his mouth trailing along Stiles’ jaw, lips mapping out the constellation of moles, following them down the corded muscles in his neck, teeth nipping gently. Stiles is far from passive, his hands skimming up Derek’s sides, thumbs brushing across pebbled nipples, earning a gasp from the other man. Derek retaliates, mouth dropping down and tongue flicking across Stiles’ nipple, chuckling when Stiles arches beneath him. Derek drags his head down further, mouth leaving a wet trail as he angles towards the hair dusted below Stiles’ bellybutton. He tips his face forward when he reaches the top of the other man’s jeans, eyes peeking through his lashes.

 

“This okay?” His fingers are playing with the button on Stiles’ pants, his voice low and heated.

 

Stiles nods, red dusting across his cheekbones, the liquid amber of his eyes slowly being swallowed as his pupils dilate, perfect pink lip caught between his teeth. Derek smiles and places a gentle kiss to Stiles’ hip before lifting up enough to divest himself of his jeans before removing Stiles’ as well, dragging them slowly down his body, eyes hungrily devouring each new inch of creamy, mole-dotted skin. His breath hitches when Stiles’ flushed cock springs free of his boxers, the head shiny with precome already, and he licks his lips in anticipation.

 

Stiles pushes himself further up the bed until his head is propped on the pillows behind him, eyes hooded, hard cock standing at attention, thick and uncut. Derek catches the stare and smiles, crawling gracefully onto the mattress, muscles flexing as he stalks his way forward, mouth dropping to run along Stiles’ calf. His teeth elongate slightly, fangs dimpling the skin as he drags them up towards his goal. He can feel Stiles shivering beneath him, the gentle undulations of the other man’s hips as he rocks into those dangerous points. He wills the fangs away when his mouth is finally hovering over the glistening head of Stiles’ cock, heated breath stirring the curls at the base of it.

 

“Der, c’mon, please.” There is a hint of a whine to the words, punctuated by another thick drop of precome oozing out of the tip, and Derek chuckles before giving Stiles what he wants, lips sliding down his length until his nose is pressed firmly against Stiles' body.

 

Derek is rewarded with a low groan, and he smirks around the dick in his mouth, swallowing once just to feel his throat tighten around the head before pulling back, leaving a sloppy trail of spit in his wake. He slurps at the tip, tongue lapping at the precome now steadily flowing from the slit. Stiles bucks once, apologizing quickly, and Derek pulls off to run his tongue from the head down to the base, smiling at the sight of Stiles’ hands scrabbling in the bed sheets.

 

He shifts his knees until he’s straddling one of Stiles’ legs, his own cock rubbing against the other man’s thigh, and moves to take Stiles in his mouth again, bobbing and sucking with a new urgency, hums of pleasure vibrating against Stiles’ cock. Derek can hear the breathy moans spilling out of Stiles, feels long fingers tangle in his hair – not pushing, just holding steady. Stiles is rocking up gently again, seemingly unable to stop the small thrusts, and Derek drops all the way down again, giving another hard suck when the hands in his hair suddenly tug him up and off, his own hips grinding down harshly at the sensation.

 

“Too much, don’t wanna come like that.”

 

Derek can see where Stiles has wrapped a hand around himself, fist squeezing the base of his dick tightly to stave off the orgasm he'd been building up to. Stiles’ other hand is still wrapped up in his hair, and he’s tugging more gently now, trying to drag Derek up his body one-handed. He makes it easy on the other man, levering himself up to his knees, arms winding around Stiles and dragging him into his lap, the other man’s ass firmly against his thighs, their cocks rubbing together.

 

Stiles crashes his mouth against Derek’s, the hand around his dick unclenching so he can wrap his fingers around them both. The heavy layer of spit still coating his cock eases the way, and it takes only a moment before he’s stroking them both in a steady rhythm. Derek drops a hand down to help, creating a tighter fist that they’re both rocking into, the steady friction winding them both tighter. Derek’s mouth breaks away, lips skimming down Stiles’ throat until his mouth finds the juncture between shoulder and neck, teeth scraping along the tendon, slowly sharpening as he sucks a mark into the tender skin.

“Fuck…Stiles…” He’s not sure what he was planning to follow that with, his brain fogged from lust, but it doesn’t matter – the small nip he delivers to Stiles’ neck at the end has the other man tensing in his arms, come spilling from him, his lips stilling against the side of Derek’s face, words mumbled into his skin – words that sound suspiciously like ‘I love you’.

 

Derek tries to focus but the slip-slide of their hands is warmer and wetter, and Derek can’t stop himself, following a bare moment later, the arm still wrapped around Stiles tightening until it feels like there’s no space between their bodies and his brain whites out. When he can focus again, he realizes Stiles is peppering kisses to his cheek and temple, any bit of skin he can reach. Derek’s own lips are pursed against the other man’s skin still, and he opens his mouth slightly, teeth nipping at the juncture, before dropping his forehead down onto Stiles’ shoulder, eyes closed as he hums in contentment. They’re still sitting like that when Scott walks in with Deaton.

 

**

 

“Oh my god, why?!?”

 

Stiles watches Derek’s eyes roll at Scott before the wolf grabs at the blanket that had scrunched beneath them, using it to cover Stiles and himself from the waist down. He can feel the burn of the flush on his face, scowling when Derek catches sight of it and starts laughing at him.

“Asshole.” Stiles is still furiously blushing, but he chuckles a little as he smacks Derek’s chest, annoyed that Derek finds his embarrassment so funny. When he glances towards the front door, the chuckle turns into a full belly laugh.

 

Scott is hunched in on himself, hands covering his face, the tips of his ears as red as Stiles’ face is. Deaton is as enigmatic as ever, face completely placid while he waits for everyone to calm down.

 

Stiles eases himself off of Derek’s lap, ignoring the gasp from behind him when he turns his back to Derek. Stiles carefully slides to the edge of the bed and keeps the blanket firmly in place while he fishes around for his pants, a grateful sigh slipping from him when he manages to snag one of the belt loops with his fingers. He drags them on before getting out from under the covers, wordlessly crouching down and grabbing Derek’s pants, surprised when he tosses them and they smack Derek in the chest, a strange expression on the other man’s face. A small part of Stiles worries that it was too much too fast, but doesn’t have time to dwell, needing to find out what Deaton might know about the magically appearing (and induced) tattoo he's now sporting. He has a pretty good idea he knows _what_ tree it is, but he needs to know the _why_ of it.

 

“Mr. Stilinski.” Deaton’s head bobs slightly in greeting before he twirls his fingers.

 

Stiles spins obediently, allowing the vet slash emissary to inspect the ink now decorating his back. There are a few quiet ‘hmms’ before a gentle tap on his arm lets him know it's fine to turn around again.

“So…what is it? Is it bad?” Stiles can feel his heartbeat picking up a little, the worry that he’d been distracted from returning to the forefront of his mind.

 

Deaton gives a small shake of his head and indicates the chairs in the living room, moving to sit without waiting for Stiles. Scott goes to sit as well, and Stiles can hear Derek shifting on the bed, likely putting on his pants. Stiles moves to the sofa, leaving room for Derek who joins them after another minute.

“It’s not bad, you can relax.” It's strange to have such a straightforward answer from the emissary, Deaton is well known for keeping everything close to the vest. “Your spark is far stronger than we thought, strong enough that when you performed great feats, you were overproducing, and the magic that powers it needed another outlet. You’ve been connected to the Nemeton ever since the sacrifices you and your packmates made to save your parents. I think that the connection is part of what caused the overflow. The Nemeton wants to be used, that’s why it was so receptive to Julia’s attempts to awaken it fully. As I explained before – it isn’t good or evil, it just is. Her magic would have twisted it, and the land around it. Yours might actually help heal it, if it doesn’t consume you in the process of you learning to harness it. Although, for the most part, you’ve managed not to abuse the power it’s giving you. I think that’s part of why supernatural…incidents…have been occurring less over the last year. Scott tells me the first one appeared a few months after you were separated from the Nogitsune?”

 

“Right…well...maybe? That’s when we noticed them, but I’m not sure when they actually showed up.”

 

Deaton’s eyebrows rise slightly at that, mouth pursing as he thinks. “Hmm, no way to know for sure then. But the others, all during the course of magic? Even the triskelion?”

 

“Yeah, even…wait what?” Stiles glances to Derek, a question in his eyes, but the other man is resolutely not looking at him.

 

“No – that wasn’t there before.” Derek’s throat bobs as he swallows hard, and Stiles’ face scrunches further in confusion, trying to catch his eye.

 

“Before?” Deaton smiles at Derek as he asks.

 

“Before…” he clears his throat, tries again, “before I slept with Stiles.”

 

“Ah. Well. That is interesting.”

 

“What? Why is that interesting? To you, I mean. I know why it’s interesting to me.” Stiles’ fingers creep up onto Derek’s knee, squeezing gently as he questions Deaton.

 

“I mostly came because I needed to talk to you about finding an anchor for your magic, something strong enough to ground you and stop the Nemeton from taking you over; however, it seems you’ve already found one.”

 

“I really, really don’t understand. Like, not even a little bit.”

 

At this, Scott huffs – clearly done with the strange tiptoeing explanation Deaton is giving – and moves over to the end table, picking up the compact that Lydia had left behind while motioning for Stiles to go stand in front of the full length mirror again. Stiles sighs a little but levers himself up and complies, also very done with vague explanations (and what the hell, Deaton had been doing so well for a few minutes there – actually telling them what was going on). He turns his back to the larger mirror, waiting as Scott pops the compact open, eyes widening when Scott finally gets the angle right to show him the newest addition. Just below his neck, above the top of the tree, is a perfect miniature replica of Derek’s tattoo, the lines solid and dark against his pale skin.

 

“Whaaa…” He can’t even finish forming the question, his jaw dropping open.

 

Aside from the first few lines, he remembers every burning second of pain of the magic etching the tattoos into his skin, but this could have only happened in the last hour, and there wasn’t even the faintest spark of pain. He returns to the sofa, only a little surprised when Derek laces their fingers together, and finally turns to look at him. He watches as the other man’s mouth opens and closes a few times, words on the tip of his tongue, before Derek turns his face to Deaton, eyebrows arching up in a clear ‘please explain better’ expression.

 

“When you were…together, your magic accepted Derek as your anchor, marking you with a symbolic reminder of what will help you learn control, what will keep you steady on the path so that you do only good with what you have. The power comes from the Nemeton, but the place inside your heart that directs it will come from Derek, from the…emotions, for lack of a better word, that you share with him. He’s the anchor that keeps you from drifting away on tides of your magic.”

 

“He’s what keeps me from coming unmoored?”

 

“Exactly.” Deaton smiles and stands, hands clapping together as if he’s explained anything in a way that makes any sort of sense beyond ‘you just bound yourself to someone without asking’.

 

The panic that had gone is welling up again; Stiles can feel the shift in his breathing, the rapid thud of his heart. A quick glance to Scott shows that their alpha hasn’t missed this new development, and he makes an aborted motion to come towards Stiles, stopping only at the bare shake of Derek’s head. It looks like he wants to protest, but instead he follows the head tilt the other man gives him and leaves just behind Deaton.

 

**

 

Derek, meanwhile, hasn’t once let go of Stiles’ hand, and gives it a quick squeeze as the other two men depart.

 

“Oh god, Derek, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to bind you to me. I didn’t know that would happen – I’d never do that to you, I wouldn’t take away your free will…” There’s a keening desperation in Stiles’ voice, his breath coming in rasping pants, and Derek can’t stop himself from dragging Stiles sideways into his lap, hands cupping Stiles' cheeks and forcing his gaze up until their eyes can meet.

 

“Stiles, calm down. Breathe.” Derek waits, breathing steadily, quietly urging Stiles to match him. When Stiles has calmed enough to listen, he starts again. “You didn’t force anything – your magic chose, it was an unconscious decision. And it isn’t taking away my free will – I don’t suddenly feel compelled to obey your wishes or commands. That’s not what an anchor is, and you know that. You were the one who helped Scott to find his. Tell me what an anchor is, Stiles.”

 

“Something that reminds you of your humanity.” It’s said softly, but the words seem to help, Stiles’ heart finally slowing down to a more normal pace.

 

“Yep.” Derek pops the ‘p’ like Stiles normally does, relieved when it earns him a tentative smile. “I can be your anchor, even if we weren’t this – it doesn’t ask anything of me. Besides, it only seems fair. You’ve been my anchor for a long time now.” He doesn’t miss the widening of Stiles eyes. He’s ready to go on, to convince Stiles that everything will be okay, but it seems he doesn’t need to when Stiles leans forward and brushes their mouths together. Derek can feel the stretch of Stiles’ lips beneath his as he smiles into it. His head tilts, mouth trailing kisses along Stiles’ jaw until it rests just below his ear, and he can’t resist whispering into the skin beneath his lips.

 

“I love you too.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you feel I missed a tag, please let me know in comments or contact me on [Tumblr](http://jennthereaper.tumblr.com/).
> 
> The [Crocotta](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crocotta) is a legitimate thing in mythology. Pretty sure the people who first saw it were just seeing Hyenas (which are also strange all on their own, but super cool).


End file.
